


the smp performing arts department

by calwasfound



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Gen, Humor, everybody in the SMP shows up at one point, they're all barely functioning but the shows are bangers, they're not all actors! there's tech + costuming + etc. :], this is just a "dream smp but it's a performing arts au" medley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calwasfound/pseuds/calwasfound
Summary: “What does ‘SMP’ in ‘SMP Performing Arts Department’ stand for anyways?” Tubbo asked.“I don’t think it stands for anything,” Purpled replied, “Like the PSAT.”Tommy cleared his throat. “Super Mega Pu-”Ranboo slapped his hand over Tommy’s mouth, effectively cutting off what Tommy was about to say. “I agree with Purpled,” he said brightly.-Dream SMP, but they're theatre kids (and all their variants). Shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Eret & Niki & CaptainPuffy, Karl Jacobs & Everyone, Purpled & TommyInnit & Tubbo & Ranboo, Quackity & Fundy & Sapnap & GeorgeNotFound, Skeppy & Antfrost & BadBoyHalo & Awesamdude, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 40
Kudos: 412





	1. the t in tech director stands for tired

**Author's Note:**

> for bee, who encourages and contributes to my medley of headcanons (first the christmas sbi ones, now this mess of theatre headcanons) until i write a fic about them
> 
> listen, the SMP is a literal roleplay server. why not step it up a notch?

Phil pushed open the doors of the tech shop - unlocked, he noted absent-mindedly, he really needed to start remembering to lock the doors - and entered the room to find the lights already on and four people already inside.

“You all are here early for strike,” he greeted, folding his coat and draping it over his chair. There were two chairs in the shop - one was permanently Phil’s and the other was fought over by the rest of the tech crew. Today, Tubbo was sitting in the second chair. 

“Wilbur drove me in,” Tommy explained, “We figured we might as well give you some time to sleep in. The rest of tech crew just fuckin’ appeared.”

“Not everybody’s related to the tech director,” Purpled pointed out. 

“And stage manager,” Phil added on reflex. Which reminded him - he had projects to start handing out and a checklist to complete. Today was a Saturday, and though their next show was a month away they still needed to get ready.

“What does ‘SMP’ in ‘SMP Performing Arts Department’ stand for anyways?” Tubbo asked.

“I don’t think it stands for anything,” Purpled replied, “Like the PSAT.”

Tommy cleared his throat. “Super Mega Pu-”

Ranboo slapped his hand over Tommy’s mouth, effectively cutting off what Tommy was about to say. “I agree with Purpled,” he said brightly. 

There was a blessed pause in which Phil deliberately tuned out the past conversation and consulted his checklist. 

“Ranboo got everybody doughnuts except for me,” Tommy groused after a minute of tolerated silence. He was perched on a stack of platforms. Phil eyed him warily - they were sturdy, but old and prone to handing out splinters like emails sent from magazine subscriptions. 

“You owe me sixteen dollars,” Ranboo pointed out. “No doughnuts until you’ve made at least a down payment.”

“I call dibs on Tommy’s doughnut,” Tubbo called with his mouth full.

Phil pointed at Tubbo. “No eating in the shop,” though his comment was halfhearted at best. There really was no way to stop people from eating in the theatre, though he did his best to admonish people when he caught them.

Tubbo guiltily finished the rest of his doughnut and Phil pulled out his plans. “What’re we doing now?”

“The good news is that the next show is going to be a continuation of the previous one,” Phil sighed and rolled out the blueprints (read: crumpled sticky notes taped on a sheet of poster paper). “We’re keeping aspects of the old set so you don’t have to tear down all of it. That means you’re taking down the tower and the White House, but leaving the podium up.”

“What, we’re continuing with the L’Manberg plot?” Tommy asked, leaping down from his stack of platforms.

“Probably. I’m not involved with the acting,” Purpled shrugged. “I think they renamed it to Manberg.”

Tommy wrinkled his nose. “Shit name.”

“Didn’t you and Tubbo act in the last play?” Ranboo asked incredulously. He was the new recruit and had admirably caught up on the lore and all its fuckery that Phil didn’t know about and didn’t want to even think about touching. 

“I’m acting in this one as well,” Tommy grinned.

“I’m just sticking with tech for this arc,” Tubbo muttered, shuddering a little. “I’m perfectly content with leaving ‘executed by firework-wired crossbow’ as the pinnacle of my acting career.”

 _“Anyways_ ," Phil cleared his throat, clapping his hands together. “Strike. You know what to do - take everything down but leave the podium. I suggest working from the top then the bottom - you’ll probably need to pull out the ladders.”

“I love strike.” Tommy bounced into the tool room. “We get to harass the actors and make them do _our_ manual labor.”

“We help with the deconstruction,” Ranboo pointed out, “The whole point of strike is a group effort to take down the set so we aren’t stuck here for hours.”

“You’re no fun,” comes muffled from a room over. 

“Phil, can I use the chainsaw?” Tubbo asked excitedly. 

Phil waved his hand wearily. “Go for it.”

He left the four boys in the tech shop and headed off in search of the playwrights’ room, hoping that the stage wouldn’t be destroyed once he came back.

-

The playwright’s room’s location varied from time to time. Phil checked the black box, then the dance practice rooms, then the dressing rooms, then in a last-ditch attempt, all the corridors. Nothing.

He finished off his rounds back at the stage, slightly irked. Tech crew had surprisingly made progress on dismantling the set - the White House was partially torn down, the roof and two walls gone. Tommy was balanced on a stack of platforms, wearing a headset and shouting instructions at pit orchestra, which was surprisingly also functioning and helping. 

“Big Q, _get off the tower!”_ Tommy hollered. 

“How am I supposed to fuckin’ take it down, then?” Quackity screeched back - he was perching awkwardly on top of one of the knobbly ledges Tommy had tacked on said prop. Every day, Phil has regrets about letting Tommy design that tower. “Or get off?”

Tubbo came hurrying by with a ladder three times his height, nearly knocking down Fundy. “Sorry, coming through, excuse me,” he constantly apologized as he maneuvered over planks and stray screws.

“Get on the ladder,” Tommy instructed - “Tubbo, you help him up - leave the ledges up, they’ll provide footholds. Take some ratchets with you, we used bolts.”

“I wasn’t aware this was _rock-climbing_ class!” Quackity’s voice was pitching higher and higher with every progressing minute that he was stuck. 

“Tommy!” Phil called. “Do you know where the playwright meeting is?”

Tommy shrugged. “They’re all talkin’ through here -” he tapped the headset - “and I’m supposed to be contributing to the meeting, but I dunno where they are. I can barely hear ‘em through all the stage noise, anyways.”

“Great,” Phil muttered. At least he could narrow it down to places where headsets were already wired. Though that didn’t help much - those fuckers were everywhere.

Phil left Tommy, Quackity, and Tubbo to the tower and ducked under what used to be the podium. Purpled was helping Sapnap take down the foundations, both of them bickering lightly about screw types. 

“Do either of you know where the playwright meeting is?” Phil asked, trying not to sneeze - sawdust was littering the ground and everywhere else, to be fair. “Or where all the headsets are hooked up to?”

“Dream’s supposed to be there but I haven’t seen him at all this morning,” Sapnap replied. “Purp?”

Purpled shrugged. “No clue. Maybe ask Ranboo, he’s usually the one up in the booth doing sounds and lighting during shows.”

“Where is he now?”

“I think he was helping Fundy.”

Phil gave them a thumbs-up and ducked out. 

Ranboo was easy enough to find - he and Fundy were detaching the podium from the White House, and they were both holding… fishing rods? Phil decided to ignore that last fact. 

“Ranboo, do you know where all the headsets are wired? In the entire theatre?”

What was visible of Ranboo’s face behind the sunglasses and the face mask - which was not a lot, but Phil was good at reading body language - looked perplexed. “Uh, no, but they’re all everywhere.”

“True,” Fundy cut in, “I’m pretty sure I saw one in the bathroom.”

Phil groaned. “I need to use them to locate the playwright meeting. I know they’re using the headsets but I don’t know where they are now.”

Ranboo paused for a moment. “If they’re using a headset, couldn’t you also use one and talk to them through it? They’re all connected, aren’t they?”

Phil closed his eyes, acknowledged that statement and its coherency, and tried to keep from screaming. “Noted. Thank you.”

He made his way over to the closest headset, which was on stage right. Phil tried valiantly to keep from smashing the buttons with too much force and slipped on the headset. Immediately, he could hear the yells - they sounded suspiciously like Wilbur, admonishing someone in the background. Something about skulls?

Phil turned up the volume to the highest setting and yelled into the mic, _“Where are you guys?”_

The voices petered off instantly. Static floated over the comms before Wilbur said, his voice much clearer and with a tinge of sheepishness, _“Hi, Phil.”_

“Will,” Phil repeated sternly, “Where are you.”

 _“Oh, Wilbur, you’re about to lose a canon life,”_ Tommy cackled over comms. Seems like the little gremlin had finally managed to fix his headset issues. 

_“Shut up, Tommy,”_ Wilbur shot back. _“Phil, we’re on…”_ he hesitated. _“The grid.”_

“I _told_ you guys not to go up there unless it was for - oh, nevermind,” Phil bemoaned, sinking back into his seat. “Who else is up there?”

 _“Techno and Niki are with me,”_ came the staticky reply, _“And Dream was here, but he left a few minutes ago. He was the one that let us in.”_

“That’s how you keep getting up there despite my locking the catwalk doors,” Phil muttered. He added _tell Dream to stop breaking into the catwalks_ on his list. “Okay, you can stay, but you’re using the ladders to get down. I’m locking the doors in a minute.”

 _“The ladders?”_ Phil can hear Wilbur’s slight desperation in his voice. Somebody laughed in the background - it sounded like Niki. _“Phil, come on-”_

“If you’re up on the grid, you use the ladders to get down,” Phil reiterated, “Tech rule. Only wimps use the stairs.”

 _“And old people like you,”_ Tommy’s voice crackled in Phil’s ears. Phil forgot he was still on comms. He had half a mind to disconnect Tommy’s headset.

Phil sighed and clicked his headset off, heading up to the stairs. 

-

Strike passed by relatively easily after that. Phil locked the doors to the catwalk twice, manually and with a lock he brought in from his office. He came down from the stairs to see Niki hopping easily off the ladders, followed by Techno practically carrying Wilbur down.

“Good session,” Techno gave Niki a thumbs up, and she returned it. “I think we’re got a lot done.”

“I’m thinking we could touch up some of the last costumes we used as well,” Niki replied, “And now that we have a sense of everybody’s arcs I can let costuming know how everybody should appear.” She ruffled Will’s hair and gave Phil a smile before heading off the stage.

“I hate those fucking ladders,” Wilbur shuddered after Techno pried his death grip off his cloak. Techno and Phil just looked on, amused. “They always make me feel like I’m going to fall to my death.”

“Not if you have a functioning grip,” Techno pointed out, and Wilbur glared at him. 

“There’s just a flimsy gate that attaches it to the catwalk, and then you have to go up _another_ one to get to the grid -”

“Which is a risk you took, going up there without supervision,” Phil admonished. 

“We didn’t move any of the weights,” Techno reassured Phil, “Honestly, we just sat within three feet of the ladder. Dream let us in but didn’t stay - I think he was listenin’ in via the mics.”

“Probably ‘cause the grid’s really high up,” a new voice interjected, “He doesn’t like heights.”

Phil sighed, not even bothering to turn around. “George, you’re late for strike.”

“My bad.” George doesn’t sound remotely sorry; he flashes a quick salute at the group - Wilbur dramatically returns it with a flourish - and makes a beeline towards Sapnap to most likely start annoying him. 

“He literally doesn’t show up for rehearsal,” Techno remarks half-interestedly. “It’s kinda impressive.”

“Which is why we’re writing him out of the script.” Wilbur taps at his phone. “Phil, I texted you the plot points and the set pieces we’ll probably need.”

“Great.” Phil’s phone let out a cheerful _ding!_ a second later. So did Techno’s. They raised their eyebrows at each other.

 _“Wilbur_ ,” Tommy screeched from across the stage, _“Why’d you text the family groupchat?”_

 _“Plot points, dumbass_ ,” Wilbur hollered back.

Phil shook his head. “You can go tell everybody we’re taking a lunch break,” he muttered to Techno. “I ordered pizza.”

Techno nodded and left, his cloak swishing behind him. Phil watched the bright red of the fabric disappear and wondered how many more props he’d find incorporated into people’s everyday outfits. 

_Lunch break. Halfway there._

-

After lunch, Phil consulted his list. He needed to check in with the costuming department, make sure everybody in pit orchestra was accounted for, and schedule a time for the Badlands to come in. 

Oh, and tell Dream to stop breaking into the catwalks.

Phil stuck his head into the theatre. Sapnap and George were sprawled in the audience seats - Phil briefly considered asking Sapnap to take his shoes off the chair in front of him, then decided that the seats were too shitty to require actual care. 

“Have any of you seen Dream?”

“Probably up on the catwalks,” George answered easily, thumbing at his phone.

“He can’t be up there, I double-locked the doors this morning.” Phil crossed his arms. 

Sapnap shrugged and exchanged a glance with George. “George,” he said pointedly, letting his voice carry, “Why do you think Dream wears that mask all the time anyways?”

“His actual face is too ugly,” George replied immediately, pitching his voice loudly as well.

A muffled clank came from above the three, followed by a wheeze and an indignant _“Hey!”_ from the catwalks. 

George and Sapnap swung around to face Phil. _I-told-you-so_ was written all over George’s face.

Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb in defeat. “I’m coming up.”

He struck a deal with Dream - if the guy was able to get through the locks, there wasn’t any point in stopping him - to at least turn on the lights when he was up on the catwalks and not let anybody else in if he was up there without Phil’s permission. 

Phil wasn’t too worried about Dream’s safety. Maybe he should be. However, if he kept getting up on the catwalks without causing Phil any problems to clear up, then he figured it was acceptable enough. 

Time to find the costuming department. 

-

Turns out, the costuming department found him. Phil had barely set foot in the lobby before he caught sight of Eret and Puffy moving through the entrance, on time for their afternoon work. Costuming department wasn’t required to show up for morning strike because 1) they weren’t too involved in the acting and set (aside from Niki) and 2) they were the only functional group that Phil didn’t have to constantly manage in the theatre, and he wanted to repay that. 

“Puffy! Eret!” Niki made her way from one of the adjoining corridors. “Good to see you.”

“How’d the playwright session go?” Eret asked cordially as Puffy playfully threw an arm around Niki’s shoulder. 

“We’re continuing with the L’Manberg storyline,” Niki replied. “Techno’s taking over his anarchist persona while Wilbur has some ideas about how to wrap up his corruption arc. I’m in charge of what happens to L’Manberg and its citizens and how they deal with the festival aftermath.”

Phil approached them. “I’m assuming you all have ideas on how to do costuming?”

“A little,” Niki directed. They all started heading to the back of the building where the costumes and props were stored. “We’re keeping the costumes from before similar. At this point in the plot, everybody has a solid idea on where they stand and what values are important to them.”

“If people confirm they’re on a different side than what they appeared to be on during the previous arc, we could switch up their designs,” Eret offered. “Like when Tubbo took off his suit before he was executed.”

They made it to the back of the building and started climbing up the stairs to get to where the costumes were stored. Phil unlocked the doors and they all stepped inside the musty room, suppressing the urge to sneeze. Puffy flicked on the lights.

“It doesn’t have to be just the costumes,” Puffy added, “If we change up the way characters physically present themselves and look, that speaks just as loudly as a new outfit.”

“I’ll let them know in the next meeting,” Niki nodded cheerfully. “Phil, anything to ask?”

“Just needed to make sure you all are on track.” Phil tossed the key to the costuming room at Niki, who caught it deftly. “Keep ahold of that and let yourselves in when you need to. And -” he pointed a warning finger - “Don’t let Tommy in here without supervision.”

“Roger that,” Eret rumbled. Puffy saluted sharply, grinning. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Phil replied and headed back down to the rest of the theatre.

-

Pit orchestra, in their element, was a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes, that force was cohesive. Today, it was not. 

Phil ducked something vaguely pen-shaped and bright orange before it made contact with his head. He turned around to see the offending object - a kazoo - clatter somewhere in the row of seats behind him. 

“Get _back,”_ Quackity screeched, “I have more where those came from!”

“How do you even have _more?”_ Fundy cried, “You’ve thrown at least five at me already!”

“Make that six _, amigo -”_

“They’ve been at this for at least ten minutes,” Sapnap commented, materializing next to Phil. They both watched Quackity chase Fundy around the electric keyboard and up the aisle, passing by George - who had not moved from his position since Phil saw him last. “I leave to tune my violin and they go feral.”

Phil groaned. “Can you… I don’t know, get their attention?”

Sapnap raised his violin under his chin and scratched out a high-pitched, harsh, drawn-out noise with a flourish of his bow. Phil barely restrained himself from slapping his hands to his ears, but the noise worked. Quackity and Fundy ceased their bickering and turned to glare at Sapnap. 

“Dude,” Quackity whined, “What the _fuck_ was that.”

“E-string,” Sapnap said smugly, “Works every time.”

“Sounded a bit out of tune,” George called from his position in the audience seats. Sapnap promptly flipped him off, then surreptitiously adjusted one of the knobs on his violin.

“Okay,” Phil clapped his hands together, “Do you all have any ideas as to what you’re going to do?”

Fundy shrugged. “We usually just hold practices until Wilbur gives us the music he’s composed for the play. Other than that… stay out of everybody’s way?”

“If I have to do a solo,” Quackity said gleefully, making his way around the theatre and picking up his discarded kazoos, “Can I get Wilbur to sneak ‘My Heart Will Go On’ into the repertoire?” 

“Absolutely not,” Phil threatened, “Or I will cut your mics mid-performance.”

“George’s joining pit orchestra,” Sapnap added, “In spirit, of course.”

“Maybe he can add vocals,” Quackity mused. 

“If you autotune the mics I’ll do it,” Fundy offered. 

“Even if I joined,” George said dryly, “This orchestra can’t sound worse than it already does.”

Quackity hurled a kazoo in his direction. Phil sighed. 

A few more hours, then he’d be able to go home.

-

Phil had locked himself in his office for the past couple hours, working on blueprints for the upcoming play. He had a lot of logistics to cover, such as wood allocated and purchases that needed to be made on their budget. Thank god tech had a policy of reusing materials for years. 

If the theatre had burned down while he was in his own working bubble, he hadn’t heard about it yet. It was quiet outside, and judging by the time, probably dark as well. 

He just had one last task to finish. 

_“Hey, this is Badlands Tech_ ,” a tinny voice came from Phil’s phone, _“Sam here, how can I help you?”_

“Sam,” Phil said with relief, “It’s Phil.”

 _“Oh, hey!”_ Sam’s voice brightened, then turned faintly concerned. _“You sound tired.”_

“It’s strike today,” Phil explained. 

_“Ah_ ,” Sam acknowledged. _“Well, how can I help you?”_

“Just wanted to schedule a time for you and the crew to come in and check up on lighting and the props,” Phil replied, “The usual.”

 _“No problem.”_ There was the faint sound of typing from Sam’s end, then, _“How does two weeks from now sound?”_

“Great.” Phil said in relief, “That works. You’ll probably be able to catch the monthly set parkour contest as well.”

 _“And make sure nobody falls to their deaths while doing so,”_ came the dry response. _“See you then, Phil. And good luck!”_

“Thanks, Sam.” Phil rubbed his forehead and ended the call.

He sat in his office for a little bit, trying to alleviate the light headache pounding at his temples. Strike was always fun, and the work was rewarding, but sometimes it made him want to run his head under the chop saw. 

Speaking of the chop saw, he left Tommy and Tubbo in the shop unsupervised. A lot of the crew members had already left - the costuming department and pit orchestra had slowly left after strike tapered off, and what was left of tech and the actors were quietly working on separate projects. 

Phil got up and opened the door of the shop. To his surprise, everything was organized neatly - tools were back in the tool room, platforms had been rolled out to the back of the stage, and planks were neatly leaning in their designated areas. Tubbo was nowhere to be seen and Wilbur was sprawled in the extra seat, Techno and Tommy quietly bickering over the last of the tech fruit snack packages. 

“Hey,” Phil said in surprise, “It’s clean.”

“Everybody pitched in to clean up. We even swept the stage and organized the chairs,” Techno informed. “It was a group effort.”

“No worries, big man,” Tommy rolled his eyes, “We didn’t destroy your precious theatre.”

“Tubbo left a few minutes ago, I think he caught a ride home with Quackity and Fundy,” Wilbur yawned, “There isn’t anybody left in the building but us.”

“Dream?”

“Saw Sapnap and George dragging him out. We’re definitely the last ones here.”

Phil allowed himself to relax - just the tiniest amount. “Thanks, boys.”

“‘M not a _boy,”_ Tommy said indignantly, “I’m a _man.”_

“Little baby man,” Wilbur teased, “Little baby, little gremlin child…”

“I’m going to shove a two-by-four plank up your ass.”

Techno and Phil followed Wilbur and Tommy’s argument out the back door of the shop, Phil turning off the lights and locking the door. 

“I think this show’s gonna be a good one,” Techno told Phil.

“Yeah,” Phil smiled, “I think so too.”


	2. do kazoos legally count as a musical instrument?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies to bee (and anybody else who's in pit orchestra) for the inaccuracies depicted here in pit orchestra management. 
> 
> short chapter because i've been focusing on other projects, but thanks y'all for the lovely comments :]

Pit orchestra, being neither actors nor tech, weren’t contractually obligated to be found within the theatre during working hours. However, they still could easily be found within the building as often Phil himself. Quackity proclaimed it was because the entire theatre department was like a big, happy family. Fundy muttered under his breath that it was Stockholm syndrome.

Currently, Fundy and Quackity had taken over one of the practice rooms and were… well, doing _something._

“Okay,” Wilbur said loudly, practically kicking down the door to the practice room, “I finished composing the score for the play.”

“Dude,” Quackity complained, removing his headphones, “We were vibing.”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow at the tornado of the practice room. Fundy was crammed into a corner, poking at his keyboard. Sheet music occupied the majority of the floor and Quackity was crouched on a stack of speakers.

“Do you even know how to read sheet music?” Wilbur prodded.

Fundy coughed from his corner and moved to plug in his keyboard into one of the speakers. Quackity grinned.

“You don’t need sheet music to play the kazoo.”

“You don’t need a lot to play the kazoo,” Fundy muttered. 

Quackity glared at Fundy, who shrugged guilelessly. Wilbur sighed and shoved a stack of papers into Quackity’s hands. “Just take a look at this. I paper-clipped different copies together.”

“Roger that, president,” Quackity saluted.

“Exiled,” Wilbur said dryly before he left the practice room. 

Fundy hummed under his breath. “On the bright side, Quackity, I think I got the keyboard to work like we wanted to.”

“Excellent,” Quackity said gleefully, hopping down from the speakers, “Now let’s meet up with the rest of the group.”

-

The “rest of the group” was just Sapnap, who was lying starfished in the middle of the lobby floor, his violin discarded to the side. 

“Dude,” Fundy remarked cautiously. Quackity nudged Sapnap with his toe. “Are you dead?”

“Yes,” Sapnap groaned. “Someone adjusted the strings on my violin so they’re slightly out of tune.”

Fundy winced in sympathy. Quackity just said, eloquently, “Sucks.”

“Who messed with my violin?” Sapnap whined. “I’m going to actually kill them. It took me ten minutes of practice to realize something was off.”

”I wish I could shake their hand,” Quackity snickered. Sapnap tilted his head to send him a death glare. 

“Not many people in this theatre have musical expertise,” Fundy remarked. “And we barely count. Quackity plays the _kazoo.”_

“Hey,” Quackity protested, “I auditioned and I got in, fair and square.”

“Walking up to Phil and demanding for him to listen to an improvised performance doesn’t count as an audition,” Sapnap countered.

“I can play a _mean_ cover of ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’.”

“Do you even know any other songs than that one?” Fundy asked curiously.

“That,” Quackity pointed his kazoo at Fundy, “Is irrelevant information.”

“Get up off the floor,” Fundy nudged Sapnap with his foot again. “Big Q and I have something we want to test out on the speakers.”

“Will Phil let you do that after The Incident?”

“We do _not_ talk about The Incident.”

They all made their way inside the theatre, their instruments in tow. To their surprise, George was in the audience, holding a polite conversation with Ranboo. Something long and dark was slung across his back - it looked like a case.

 _“George,”_ Sapnap sang gleefully.

George swung around to face the group. The flash of comical dismay that passed over his face was hilarious in of itself.

“Okay,” George said quickly to Ranboo, “I’ll just find another time to -”

“To do what?” Quackity asked, slinging an arm around George’s shoulders and the case. George suffered this with an eyeroll but made no move to push Quackity away. 

“Test something out,” George muttered as Ranboo interjected helpfully, “He brought his guitar.”

There was a silence in which George glared daggers at Ranboo, who shrugged somewhat abashedly. Quackity and Sapnap glanced at each other, growing grins on their faces. 

“Oh, that’s _excellent,_ ” Sapnap said loudly. “Do you think that we could, y’know, test it out? Maybe? On the speakers?”

“Fundy,” Quackity whispered. “Start setting up your keyboard.” Fundy saluted and melted away to the front of the stage. 

“Sapnap,” George hissed, “What are you doing?”

Sapnap only threw George an exaggerated wink. If anything, George looked even more annoyed. 

“I don’t think that’s going to be a good idea,” Ranboo began hesitantly, “Seeing as when you guys had mic access last, The Incident occured -”

“Which will _not_ happen again,” Quackity interjected smoothly. “C’mon, man, just for five minutes? For George?”

Ranboo glanced at George, who only gestured helplessly. “Okay,” he began slowly, “Five minutes.”

There was a brief respite in which Ranboo disappeared to set up the sound equipment and George tried to edge closer to one of the emergency exits.

“No,” Sapnap said after hauling George back by his collar, “You’re staying here.”

“Get your hands off me,” George huffed, slapping away Sapnap’s fingers. “I don’t see why I should stay and listen, it’s not going to contribute anything.”

“Well,” Sapnap grinned, “Let’s just say you’ll want to be here in ten minutes.”

“I certainly doubt that.”

“If anything bad happens I’m cutting off your mic access!” Ranboo yelled from the booth, his words muffled by the glass. 

“You can’t do that!” Quackity shouted. 

“I do it for almost every rehearsal!” Ranboo propped open the booth window that overlooked the audience so his words were clearer. “You guys just never notice.”

Fundy gaped comically up at Ranboo. “Does that mean you’d just _play music_ over us during performances?”

Ranboo froze for a second and slowly closed the window instead of replying.

“Can’t believe Phil let him into the booth,” Sapnap groaned dramatically.

“To be fair,” George pointed out, “He’s the least likely member of tech crew to set fire to the equipment.”

“We are _not_ being fair.”

“Okay, we need to play somewhat coherently for the first few minutes so we still get to stay on access to the speaker systems,” Fundy explained, fiddling with the knobs on his keyboard. “What about trying the sheet music Wilbur gave us?”

“We just got that, like, fifteen minutes ago!” 

“Shut up,” Sapnap hissed, dragging a stand over, “Just play.”

“You’re on in three,” Ranboo called. “Two… one.”

The entire theatre collectively braced for the upcoming performance. When everything _didn’t_ dissolve into chaos immediately, Quackity cracked an eye open and peered cautiously at their ensemble. 

“George,” he hissed - in surprise rather than anger - “What the _fuck?”_

George didn’t even look up at Quackity, eyes trained on the sheet music pinned haphazardly on Sapnap’s stand. His guitar was out and slung around his shoulders, alternating notes vibrating from one of the speakers he’d connected it to. “I’m saving your performance.”

“You can sight-read? Who taught you?” Sapnap asked incredulously. 

“Your mom,” George replied, deadpan. 

Someone wheeze-cackled from up in the catwalks. Sapnap, without even turning around, flipped off the darkness and yelled, _“It wasn’t even that funny, Dream!”_

“I think this is the first performance we haven’t thrown in a while,” Fundy remarked, his hands dancing over his keyboard. “Everybody, get ready - on your marks -”

Sapnap carefully settled his violin on his chair. 

Quackity blew out a sharp whistle on his kazoo and the theatre sprung into action. Sapnap practically threw himself across the stage and yanked the plug connecting George’s guitar to the speaker out. Fundy hit a button on his keyboard and slammed his hands onto the keys, the sound being replaced with something much more synth-like and familiar. 

Up in the booth, Ranboo was frozen in a belated _oh, no._

 _“CREEPER,”_ Quackity bellowed into his mic. 

The theatre was plunged into relative silence as Ranboo cut the sound systems, but the damage had already been done. There was a distant _CRASH_ a hallway over, and the sounds of a scuffle from the direction of the tech shop. 

_“AW MAN,”_ Tommy hollerered, skidding out from backstage. He was still holding a drill in his right hand. 

The _THUNK_ of Ranboo’s forehead hitting the desk was still audible even to those on the stage. 

Tommy blinked, as if he was suddenly realizing where he was. “Wait, what the fuck?”

 _“So we back in the mine,”_ Tubbo sang tunelessly as he meandered onto the stage. “Tommy, the podium’s still missing a brace.”

Tommy swore and started shoving Tubbo back in the direction of the shop. Fundy and Quackity shared a grin and knocked their fists together. 

“Mission accomplished,” Quackity said with relish. 

“You couldn’t have picked a better song?” George asked, sounding slightly miffed. 

“Nah,” Sapnap said cheerfully, “This one was a classic.”

“You all,” Ranboo called, his voice muffled - presumably still resting his forehead on the desk in defeat - “Are never allowed to test the mics again.”

Pit orchestra surveyed each other, grinning. For a minute, they commandeered the entire theatre - right on the edge of the stage, in front of the empty seats: an audience of ghosts. 

“Okay,” Fundy sighed, “Now that we actually have the repertoire, we need to start working on it.”

“Hey, George,” Quackity crooned, “Would you be so kind as to consider joining…?”

“No.”


	3. the l'mantree is gone, crabrave

Tech had been going fairly well for the past week. There was only one saw-related mishap and the set was well on its way to being halfway built.

Well, things had been going fairly well until Tommy had the idea to operate the lift by himself, just to see how high it would go. Tubbo had strolled into the theatre after his bathroom break just in time to see Tommy back the lift right into a prop and run it over with a  _ CRUNCH.  _

“Oh no,” Tubbo said faintly. 

“Wh -  _ Tubbo!”  _ Tommy exclaimed in the voice of one who just got caught doing something they were not supposed to be caught doing. 

Tubbo made his way to the fallen prop. It was a tree, cobbled together out of foam and duct tape, lovingly repainted where it was peeling. And it was cleanly crushed in five separate pieces. 

“Tommy,” Tubbo said warningly. “The prop.”

“You didn’t see anything,” Tommy accused as he swung down from the lift. “I think your eyes aren’t working - by the way, Tubbo, didn’t you say you needed glasses a week ago? I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, besides your failing eyesight - oh, fuck.”

“Tommy,” Tubbo repeated, “That’s the L’Mantree.”

Tommy scoffed, though he looked sheepish. “Are you sure about that? What’s the saying - there’s plenty of trees in the forest? I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding -”

“Did you guys break the tree?” Purpled asked incredulously, having entered the theatre from the audience entrance. 

Tubbo nodded mournfully. Tommy said, “It was Tubbo.”

“Sure,” Purpled said skeptically. “Look, the play’s at the end of the month, we really need a tree.”

“Is it salvageable?” That was Ranboo, heading over from the shop. He didn’t look too peuterbed, probably because he’d been used to how many props tech had managed to break in his time here. 

“The duct tape rule doesn’t apply here,” Tommy muttered. 

“That bad, huh?” Ranboo hopped onto the stage. “Are you - oh. Oh, no.”

“The L’Mantree,” Tubbo said in the same mournful tone that graced his facial expression, “is gone.”

“F for respects,” Purpled muttered. “That was one of, like, the OG props. I think it’s been around as long as Dream’s mask has been on his face.”

They all stood and contemplated the existence of the stationary smile painted onto Dream’s mask. 

“Legend says that Dream’s mask is actually a part of his face,” Tubbo said, still somewhat mournfully. 

“It’s just a prop he found years ago and stole from the theatre,” Techno interjected, passing by the boys on his way to the playwright’s room. He discreetly passed Tommy something - a chipped, dark skull prop. 

“Still, he’s only a few years older than us, he’s not a fuckin’ cryptid.” Tommy was eyeing the skull suspiciously. 

“When I joined the SMP he shot me with that crossbow prop,” Ranboo grumbled, “Twice.”

“Isn’t that crossbow, like, involved in at least three canon deaths in this theatre?” Purpled queried. 

Tubbo nodded glumly. 

“Mine wasn’t canon, for the record,” Ranboo muttered under his breath. 

“I distinctly remember you hiding in the shop with an arrow sticking out of your ass,” Tommy snorted. 

Ranboo glared - the tilt of his sunglasses looked decidedly aggressive. “Who’s the one on their last canon life, may I ask?” he said pointedly. 

Purpled clapped his hands together loudly. “Guys,” he interjected, “We still need to replace the tree.”

They all stood in relative silence, thinking of a way to minimalize the damage. Finally, Ranboo broke the silence. 

“There’s a forest not too far behind campus,” he said slowly. 

“Great,” Tubbo announced cheerily, “I’ll get the chainsaw.”

-

“Tommy,” Tubbo said tiredly, hefting the chainsaw in his hands, “Please stop talking.”

“It’s already hard enough to understand you without the British accent,” Purpled deadpanned. 

Tommy sputtered. “I  _ am _ fucking British!”

“Occupational hazard of being from the UK,” Ranboo said cheerfully. 

They were on their way to the forest - it really wasn’t a forest, more of a sparse and scraggly woods - but it was still a looming shadow across the fields behind campus. 

Tech hadn’t earned too many strange looks as they made their way to the woods, but Tommy’s loud, constant banter and the shopping cart Ranboo was wheeling (for tree transport) were enough to scatter the birds that they passed. Tubbo’s chainsaw was actually the most innocuous aspect about the group. 

Tommy had chosen to sit in the cart with his knees slung over the edge, hands gesturing wildly when they were not tugging at Tubbo’s sleeve to get his attention. “Tubbo, hand me the chainsaw?”

“No.”

“You’re supposed to be my bitch around here,” Tommy whined, “Pass over the chainsaw.”

“You’re going to either hit me or Ranboo with it,” Tubbo replied. “So, no.”

Tommy huffed and attempted to knock his foot into Tubbo’s side - he was hampered by the cart and Tubbo neatly dodged. 

A few more minutes of scuffling ensued before Ranboo sighed, “All right, my turn in the cart,” and Tommy grumbled under his breath before uncurling himself from the shopping cart basket and trading spots with Ranboo. 

Ranboo folded himself much more neatly than Tommy, tucking his knees under his chin politely. “Ranboo,” Tommy grinned, “You ready?”

“I - what…?”

Tommy immediately took off, shoving the cart wildly towards the sparse fringe of forest. Ranboo yelped and grasped the edge of the cart, his protests loud and high-pitched as the two crashed their way to the underbrush. 

“Hope we have insurance on that cart,” Purpled remarked, “I think it’s going to be a wreck in a couple minutes.”

Tubbo sighed. “Yeah,” and the two watched as the cart went flying over some rocks, sending Tommy and Ranboo toppling. 

They made their way to the edge of the forest, where Tommy was sprawled on the grass and the cart was lying on its side a few feet away. Ranboo was still somehow holding onto the cart, his hands white-knuckled. 

“Shouldn’t have done that, big man,” Tubbo said mildly as he pulled Tommy to his feet with his chainsaw-free hand. “You might’ve given Ranboo a concussion.”

“What about  _ my  _ head?” Tommy whined as Ranboo said, his voice muffled from his face being very much still in contact with the dirt, “My brain was mostly empty anyways.”

“Well, fill it with something,” Tubbo replied. 

“With what?” Ranboo pushed himself up off the ground. His sunglasses were slightly askew. “Dirt?”

“As long as it’s not sand,” Tommy muttered with the air of one who had gone over multiple similar scenarios before. 

Tubbo paled. “Don’t say that too loud. You might summon him.”

“Wilbur’s probably too busy catjamming to hear -”

“Anybody know where Purpled is?” Ranboo interrupted. 

The trio stood on the edge of the forest and stared into the trees. Their fourth crew member was long gone. 

“He’s probably off doing what we actually came here for,” Tubbo said reasonably as Tommy announced, “He’s fuckin’ dead.”

Another beat of silence. Ranboo sighed. “Well, we better go find him.”

The three started their trek into the woods. There was a faint path curving into the woods, winding along the brush. Tommy went first, forcefully snapping branches out of his way to make room for Ranboo and Tubbo. 

“Keep an eye out for him,” Tubbo called, hefting the chainsaw in his hand and keeping an eye out for any possible tree candidates.

Ranboo was picking leaves out of his hair - side effect of being freakishly tall, as Tommy would put it. Tommy hollered,  _ “PURPLED?”  _ into the woods. Whatever birds remained in the woods flapped away in protest. 

“Sheesh, I’m right here, tone it down,” Purpled’s annoyed voice floated back to the trio. He sounded somewhere to their right and they all peered into the underbrush. “I found a tree.”

“Ayy, big man!” Tommy cheered, stomping his way over to where Purpled’s voice came from. 

“Tommy, the plants... oh, nevermind,” Tubbo started then trailed off. Ranboo snickered. 

“At least we have a path to follow.”

They followed Tommy’s frenzied rush through the trees until they saw the flash of Purpled’s hoodie through the trees. He was standing next to a tree - really, more of a sapling - that barely looked taller than Ranboo. It was thinner than Tommy’s wrist and looked one strong gust of wind away from falling down. 

“This one,” Purpled proclaimed. “This is the one.”

“Seems a bit malnourished.” Tommy side-eyed the tree. 

“Unless you want to stay out here for longer…” Purpled said warningly. 

“The tree is fine!” Tubbo said brightly before Tommy could reply, and flicked the chainsaw on. 

The rest of the three steadied the tree as Tubbo made quick work of the trunk and were soon able to pry it from the ground. They followed Tommy’s path through the underbrush until they made it to the main path and neared the still-toppled shopping cart. 

“Put ‘er in,” Ranboo called, and they tipped the shopping cart the right way up and leaned the tree inside the basket area. 

“It looks kind of like you,” Tommy said thoughtfully as they made their way back to the theatre with their precious cargo. “All lanky and shit.”

“You’re the one with the…” Tubbo waved. “Pointy elbows.”

“Like sticks,” Purpled added dryly. 

Tommy sputtered. “My limbs are  _ not _ like sticks, dickheads!”

Ranboo just hummed something underneath his breath, the tune slightly pensive and simple with a repeating melody. 

The stick argument carried well into the fields and the tech shop. Ranboo and Purpled managed to heft the tree out of the cart and prop it up against the sliding saw. 

“How are we going to keep the tree from falling?” Ranboo asked curiously, ignoring the continuous debate between Tommy and Tubbo, which had morphed into something concerning explosives. 

“We have some old pipes,” Purpled mused, “If we cut one into a piece big enough to stick the trunk in, we can screw some L wedges into a piece of plywood and call it a day.”

Ranboo gave him a thumbs up and disappeared into the further recesses of the shop to look for the pipes - he somehow knew where everything was located in the shop, despite never knowing how to articulate where things were. 

“L shaped hinges,” Purpled told Tommy and Tubbo, who were still in the midst of their argument, “3 of them, not the thick ones.”

Tubbo nodded, his attention briefly snapping to Purpled. “How long do you think the screws need to be?”

Purpled shrugged. “One and a half inches?”

“Let’s use Phillips heads,” Tommy suggested. 

“You only like them because they’re harder to put in than star bits,” Tubbo accused. 

“If you’re not putting force into the drills,” Tommy whined, “What’s the point?”

Tubbo sighed. “I still think nuclear’s a good option for destroying evidence without any remains.”

“We’re not fucking  _ American,” _ and they were off towards the tool rack, bickering again. Purpled sighed and went to the scrap pile to scavenge for a decently sized piece of plywood. 

_ “Cutting!”  _ he heard Ranboo warn before bringing down the chop saw on a piece of plastic with a screech and a whir. 

Purpled pulled a rather evenly cut rectangle of plywood the size of his forearm out of the pile and headed back to the main area of the shop. Tommy and Tubbo were already seated on the ground, snapping the batteries onto their drills. 

“Careful,” Tommy warned, gesturing to the loose screws rolling on the floor. 

When Ranboo returned with the cut pipe, he placed it evenly on the plywood as Purpled stuck the tree inside.  After that, work passed by easily - Tommy and Tubbo made quick work of screwing the tree into the pipe and L braces.  When they were finished, Ranboo and Purpled removed their hands from the tree, no longer bracing it. 

It wobbled but stayed upright. 

Tommy let out a victorious holler that echoed throughout the entire theatre. Purpled and Ranboo let out simultaneous  _ “let’s go!”s _ and Tubbo simply laughed. 

“L’Mantree,” Ranboo proclaimed, “You have been reborn.”

They replaced the tree in its usual corner of the stage and went back to their individual tasks with the pleased airs of a job well done. 

-

“Phil,” Wilbur asked slowly as they re-entered the stage from the playwright meeting, “Does anything look… different to you?”

Phil surveyed the tree and how surprisingly stable it looked. It’d definitely hold up for the rest of the show - maybe even more. He felt oddly proud. 

“Nah,” he said, “I think it looks fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this may or may not have been based on a real incident involving a much-needed tree prop and an electric saw.

**Author's Note:**

> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/sugarcal__) and [tumblr](https://calwasfound.tumblr.com) are here. i mostly do art, but occasionally i guess i write!


End file.
